Merry Whatever

John Lennon had it right--that Paul McCartney had given up groundbreaking creativity for writing silly love songs. He said that in 1973 when the breakup of the world's greatest band still touched raw nerves, and the former bandmates seemed to be trying to outdo themselve to prove they were the real reason for the group's astonishing success.

Clearly, something was lost in McCartney's songwriting after the Beatles. While he certainly has enjoyed popular success over the last forty years, tossing off hummable bon mots with about as much effort as most of us use to make breakfast, "groundbreaking" is not how most music fans would describe these tunes. Compare "Ebony and Ivory" with "A Day In The Life" and you'll know what I mean.

It wasn't the spectacle of watching McCartney bring his senior citizen rock moves to Saturday Night Live this past week that has me thinking about the former Beatle, or the fact that his music is finally available on I-Tunes (hurray!!), but that my son picked his Christmas song to try out for a solo slot in his high school's upcoming holiday concert. Isaac didn't get the solo, which I believe has as much to do with the quality of McCartney's carol as Isaac's admittedly shakey performance.

Written in 1979, McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime" has taken its place as one of the most often heard songs played on 24/7 Christmas radio stations. Yet, it boasts lyrics so banal that it could be about any family-oriented holiday. OK, that is an overstatement. There are no choirs of children and bells in a song about the Fourth of July, but you get my drift. The song is about feeling good, having a party, being with friends and family--that's Christmas spirit without Christmas message.

John Lennon, who was never a proponent of Christian faith (e.g. "The Beatles are more popular than Jesus"), at least understood that the hope of Peace on Earth was a very good reason to wish Merry Christmas. Yet, for Paul McCartney, there is no gift giving, no peace, no humble, struggling Holy Family. Instead Christmas is all about mood and feelings.

Well, if that's what Christmas is about, maybe we should all just take a Zoloft on December 25, sit home, and listen to Johnny Mathis albums! Seriously, in this weather, who needs a party? Why don the cheesy red sweater and risk grievous bodily harm to drive across town, especially after imbibing a few egg nogs? If feeling warm inside is the goal, then skip the cards and the $10 gifts and just mix me another Hot Toddy, please!

I'm still waiting for Christmas spirit to hit me this season. My wife says I've been a curmudgeon all month--heck I nixed the backyard ice rink, have found plenty of things to do other than shop, and not even faked an effort to start addressing Christmas cards. I know I have responsibilities to bring Christmas spirit to my family--and with that in mind I gamely hung outdoor lights, hoisted an enormous wreath on the front of the house, and even baked some amazing cookies. In a more serious vain, our family's Advent devotions have occurred almost daily--in an admirable effort to remember "the reason for the season." Yet, I'm still left wondering, who's going to bring the Christmas spirit to me this year?

Last night we ended up watching Seven Years in Tibet on television. This visually spectacular film tells the story of Heinrich Herrer, an egotistical mountain climber, whose life was changed by his friendship with Dalai Lama and introduction to Tibbetan Buddhism. With Brad Pitt as the lead, the movie was a Hollywood production that needed mass appeal to earn profits (and recoup the $70 million + production budget). Yet, despite Pitt's almost comical German accent (wonder if he was remembering this role while hamming it up in Inglorious Basterds?), his character showed admirable growth thanks to his encounter with the Tibetan people.

In one scene, Pitt's character was showing off his athleticism to a throng of Tibetans who were ice skating, apparently for the first time. Yet, the Tibetans paid no attention to the flamboyant mountain climber who was performing stunts on the ice, preferring instead to encourage Herrer's companion, another Austrian, who was focused on helping a lovely young Tibetan find her footing on a very slippery surface. Lesson? It's not about drawing attention to one's self that matters, it's all about helping others.

Bereft of the attention of the lovely young Tibetan woman, Pitt's character finds himself taking an awkward, saffron-robed monk by the hand, and guides him across the ice. Ironically, it's this selfless act of kindness that drew the Dalai Lama's attention, watching the whole skating adventure from afar. But for his selfless act, Pitt's character may have never formed a bond with one of the world's most deeply spiritual persons.

Lesson for me? I'll not enjoy authentic Christmas spirit this year unless I find a way truly to give of myself to others. Isn't that what Christ's gift showed us? That by emptying ourselves of power and position, honor and glory, and by humbling ourselves, we learn true purpose and meaning for our lives? Just what will that mean for me? I'm not yet sure. But I'll let you know when I figure it out (probably with some outside help).

Keep your Christmas mood this year Paul McCartney--I'm looking for something more.

December Reset

Hello blog, my old friend. Hopefully with a little tending I can get you nursed back to health in no time. Hopefully my neglect has not permanently destroyed what was an important part of my life a few months ago.

So what's been going on in my life lately. Let me start with passions. I'm still exercising (and have kept the weight off). But, today it was snowing and I didn't run, swim or do anything remotely physical. Is this the beginning of a slothful trend--or will I get back on the horse and continue working out like before? We'll see.

Food is still a passion. Lately I've been making delicious morning smoothies with Arab yogurt and frozen berries from Costco. Not too much sugar, lots of protein, fantastic taste. Having a ball baking, too. Made a Paula Dean rum-soaked pound cake for my wife's birthday. So good. Boozy, sugary, full of butter, rich--yeah it was "out of the park" good. Also made the Thanksgiving pies this year, which everybody loved.

Work is picking up. Though hardly my passion, it is something I enjoy. The new business started last spring is finally up and running. Along with my partner, we've got an open location that is serving patients. We've got a functioning website and even a marketing plan. It's all very early, but it's more than a dream--it's a reality. Oh yeah, I have a new law client, too. Unfortunately, the first real project I did for them was less than a stellar success. I thought I was good with people? Well, in designing an executive compensation plan for the client, the first person they presented it to found the plan "one-sided and unfair" and refused to join their enterprise. I think she was mentally unstable, so good riddance--but the client wasn't pleased. I'm in fence mending mode with them now.

I also "broke up" with another associate who I intended to launch a business with. Filled with exuberance over a good idea, I got way ahead of myself and spent a lot of time and energy planning for this business. When we actually sat down to negotiate our partnership, my friend (who says he has high control needs) refused go into the venture as equal partners with me. He wanted to own a large majority of the shares of our corporation and I said "no!" I'm just not in the mood to be anybody's junior partner at this stage in my career, especially when the venture is a start-up with no established business. I hope we're still friends, but I'm not sure.

And the family? Well let's start positive. Isaac is kicking butt in high school with really good grades, lots of friends, and interesting extracurricular activities. We're confident we made the right call keeping him in public schools.

Amelia seems to be doing OK in college again. Her classes are challenging, her spirits are high, but her health has been a little shaky. She burns the candle at both ends and is paying the price. Her asthma, which had been in check for years after receiving a blessing from a Catholic priest with known healing powers (not kidding), is back with a vengeance. With a nice long school break approaching, she'll have a few much needed weeks to recover.

Angel is in culinary school, which is a good thing. Clearly he loves his studies. And, he's really good at the subject matter. Now, the challenge is to keep his nose to the grindstone even though the academic part of his course work is not nearly as exciting and emotionally rewarding as his interactions with people and time in the kitchen. Staying focused on long-term goals is always a struggle, especially with so many distractions in his life.

Speaking of single-minded focus, Lonelli continues to hurtle through life fixated on one or more challenges. Right now she's determined to complete a half ironman triathlon in South Africa early next year. She is also determined to get into a healthy, affirming relationship. These are both good things--at the same time they are not the only things in her life. We continue to encourage her to remember that family and friends are not just yes people there to green light every passion in her life. We have different perspectives and we are not kill joys if we suggest different priorities.

That leaves Clarisa and me. I'm always glad that I'm married--and have never wanted to be anything but Clarisa's husband for the last 20 years. At the same time, even people you love can get on your nerves--and Clarisa and I seem to find every occassion to bother, bug, and generally annoy each other.

In my marriage, we both assume that our perspectives are correct and that our partners have somehow changed. I don't think its change that bothers us, it's our intense togetherness. I believe that as we grow older we're less and less tolerant of our partner's annoying characteristics. They were always there, we just overlooked them, which was easier when we both worked, had small children to tend to, and many other obligations in our lives. But now we're together more--so we're left staring at each other every day thinking, "Is this the person I married?"

I think we both need to become more accepting of each other and recognize that our lives are changing. We're no longer young--and more of our life is behind us than ahead of us. Our roles are changing in our families and in our community, and we need to accept these changes and see the opportunities for growth.

As 2010 winds down, I'm glad this year is over. There were far more uncomfortable experiences than I'm used to. There was less success. More unhappiness.

Ultimately I know that success and happiness come from within, they come when our lives, spirits and goals are aligned with God's will. Chasing after other people's approval or admiration are deadend streets, because we can never get from someone else what brings peace to our spirits. Instead, in 2011 I will strive to find purposefulness in my relationships, in my work, and in my deeds.

One big upcoming event that will help me deepen my thinking and improve my spirit will be World Youth Day 2011. Clarisa and I are the primary chaperones for a group from Grosse Pointe who will attend the World Youth Day in Madrid, Spain in August. The preparation for that journey will include intense spiritual reflection and working hard at interpersonal relationships. The trip is coming at a good time in my life--the year I turn 50--a time when, hopefully I'll be more open to the moving of God's Spirit within.

I also hope this rambling essay resets my mind and gets me back writing. We'll see, won't we. Keep reading!

Censorship! On the Campaign Trail?

Elections for officers for the Class of 2014 were held last week at Grosse Pointe South High School. While fourteen-year old Isaac Piecuch of Grosse Pointe Farms was elected in a landslide to be president of his school's freshman class, he encountered some bumps on his road to victory.

Unknown to the voters at South High School, Isaac is a second cousin of Juan Williams, the recently dropped political commentator for National Public Radio, and now the darling of Fox News.

As celebrities go, Williams is a one who until recently elicited blank stares from most people. Not too many of Isaac's classmates listened to NPR, let alone picked up Williams' biography of Thurgood Marshall or cared that he was on the editorial board of the Washington Post. But now, thanks to the attentions of Bill O'Reilly, Whoopie Goldberg, and Jon Stewart, Williams is practically a household name--and Isaac is his cousin.

The son of immigrants from Panama, Williams and Isaac's mother (my wife Clarisa) grew up together in Brooklyn, New York. Williams' parents figured out that education was the key to success and they somehow sent Juan to prestigious boarding schools, even though their personal finances were modest at best. Talent, hardwork and a good education clearly paid off for Juan.

Isaac has met Juan a few times--at family gatherings--weddings, and, most recently, the April funeral of Isaac's grandfather, who also was Williams' first cousin. At that funeral Isaac sang the old gospel song, "His Eye is On the Sparrow," which is why Williams remembers Isaac. Williams wrote a book on African American religious music, in which he talked about that very song.

Besides a common interest on music, Isaac, like his celebrity cousin, encountered his own bit of censorship during the recent campaign at South High School.

Administrators required all candidates to present advanced copies of their speeches for review, and one sentence in Isaac's presidential campaign speech was deleted. In its original form, the speech quoted Sarah Palin. Isaac wished to say, "The great political leader Sarah Palin once said, 'I can see Russia from my house.' While I can't see Russia from my house, I can see a freshman class excited and movtivated to improve their school."

The administration felt mentioning Sarah Palin might "offend people" so they edited it from the speech. Instead Isaac was permitted to say, "While I can't see Russia from my house, I can see a freshman class . . . "

Perhaps there was a suggestion of mockery in Isaac's initial quote that the administration frowned on. However, the tone of Isaac's speech was far more civil than the name calling, distortions and outright lies we're being subjected to this campaign season.

While news organizations like NPR and school administrators steer clear of public discourse that expresses personal opinions that could offend, who is there to protect the public from the unending onslaught of highly politicized messages we encounter on television, in direct mail pieces and on the radio. And these messages don't come from the mouths of identifiable speakers, but are paid for by undisclosed donors whose motivations are unknown to listeners. Something seems out of whack here.

OK, I'm ranting a bit. For a person who loves the First Amendment (which guarantees both free speech AND religion, are you reading this Christine O'Donnell?) I'm not looking to restrict free speech. However, is speech created by unknown persons that includes lies and distortions meant to sway public opinion protected by our Constitution? I don't think so. However, it seems wrong that in a year when liars are free to spew filth from behind their big rocks without fear of retribution, Juan Williams gets fired for expressing his reaction (which I share) to Muslims on airplanes post 9-11, and Isaac Piecuch is prohibited from saying the name "Sarah Palin" in a campaign speech.

In another interesting election twist at South High School, like many current candidates, Isaac feared being too closely associated with the U.S. President and chose not to hang his favorite campaign poster that read: "Vote for Isaac, he kind of looks like Obama."

Flattery Will Get You . . .

Who doesn't like a compliment?

I know I love them. Yeah, tell me I look handsome and . . . you pretty much own me. OK, maybe I'm not that shallow, but I do enjoy praise. In fact if you heap it on nice and thick, you won't hear me protest!

Many otherwise strong people have been brought down by their own vanity. After all, it is one of the seven deadly sins. And, apparently, one that I particularly am prone to indulge in.

So this week, a little bit of online flattery almost cost me money, my professional reputation, and good old, general humiliation. What happened you ask?

Two weeks ago, out of the blue, I received an email in my professional email account from someone purporting to be an attorney based in Brussels. The attorney said he had a client in Japan who he had represented, but now had a legal issue in my jurisdiction (the email never said "Michigan" however, which should have aroused my suspicion). The email went on and gave the contact information for his Japanese client.

My first reaction was pride. Wow, a European lawyer found my little website and decided, based on reading my glowing descriptions of my professional abilities, that I could represent his client. Figuring there was no harm in sending an email, I sent an email to the supposed client briefly introducing myself.

Four days later, I was surprised and delighted that I received back an email FROM JAPAN!!! And, yes, the president of a Japanese Steel Company was asking me to make a proposal to represent his company in a dispute with a Michigan company. I was thrilled.

To make a good proposal, I immediately did some online research. The Japanese company was a legitimate enterprise--in business since 1934. My purported potential client was in fact the president of the company. The Michigan corporation really is in business and could in fact have been in a dispute with a Japanese steel company.

I sent by email a brief proposal to Mr. Nishimoto and included a representation contract. I even asked for a significant retainer because this could be a big job, and I needed pre-paid funds to get started.

Two days later, to my delight, I received an email from Mr. Nishimoto. He claimed he had received approval from his Board of Directors to accept me as their Michigan legal counsel. He sent back a signed contract. He also sent me the purchase order that was the center of the dispute. This seemingly legitimate purchase order was signed AND SEALED by the president of the Michigan company. Everything appeared in order.

Mr. Nishimoto said he still wanted to keep the Michigan company as a customer. He said he told his customer that they had retained a Michigan lawyer in case they could not resolve their dispute and that I would spring into action "as a last resort". My instructions were to send wiring information so that he could send me my retainer, and then sit tight.

Wow, how easy! I would get paid, and, possibly not perform any services. At this point, however, nagging questions started popping up in my brain. Certain aspects of this chain of events seemed almost too good to be true. And, if something is too good to be true, in many cases, it isn't true.

But, I pushed forward with optimism, seeing this engagement as a chance to get some good publicity for my law firm. I even asked my daughter to start working on a press release to announce our new client. Both my daughter and I put on our Facebook pages, glowing announcements of our good fortune. However, I didn't send the bank routing information, not yet.

Ultimately, as we were compiling information for the press release, Lonelli Googled the name of the company and its president, and a listing appeared about scamming lawyers. Thank God for search engines!

As we read the posting, we saw that other lawyers in the United States had received nearly identical communications from persons needing legal representation. The set ups included the same companies, European lawyer, and legal dispute. One lawyer commenting on the scam said it originated in China, and he pointed out some of the "red flags" he noticed: poorly written correspondence; "too familiar" messages from persons who supposedly were C-level business execs; too quick turn around times for decisions.

Yeah, I had noticed those things too, but I didn't want to heed the signs, not at first. Yes I thought the writing style of the emails was a little strange, but the messages were written by persons for whom English is a second (or third) language. Why should I be put off by a little funky grammar!

And getting emails directly from the president of a multi-billion dollar steel company, that was unusual, wasn't it? Why wasn't he working through his own legal staff? When I get hired by big companies, its always by their legal counsel, not by their president. Ah, but here's where I was seduced by my own vanity. Why wouldn't the president of the company be impressed by my website and abilities? He clearly thought this matter was so important it required his personal attention.

Thank God I'm paranoid about sharing bank data through emails. I was not going to send him the keys to my professional bank account until I was completely sure the engagement was for real. But I was close. I did call my bank and confirmed the routing number. Sending the information was on my "to do" list for the day. I very nearly got scammed.

Instead I sent my "client" a sharply worded email saying he could fool a lot of people, but he didn't fool me! Secretly I hoped he would write me back and apologize and compliment me on my expert sleuthing skills. Maybe I'd hear him say like one of the confounded criminals on Scooby Doo, "Yeah, I almost got away with it, but those smarty pants kids figured it out."

Even better, perhaps Mr. Nishimoto would write back with more proofs and say, those lawyers in Virginia who were scammed, that was a fraud, but I'm for real, and I can prove it. And, I'll MAIL a check to you immediately to prove I still want you!

But instead, my inbox is strangely silent, and the scammers troll the internet looking for other lawyers whose vanity may cloud their better judgements.

Know any Japanese steel companies that need a good lawyer? I've got some free time on my schedule this week.

Move Away from the Twinkie!

Actually, I've never really liked Twinkies, but I LOVE to snack. . . . and drink alcohol. . . . and eat dessert. And, this may come as a bit of surprise based on my recent bragging, I really don't love working out all that much.

While I love how I look and feel since I began eating right and exercising like a maniac, lethargy and gluttony are never quite out of my system. What's making this week all that more miserable for me is that I quit smoking (again) on Labor Day. Many of you don't know that for 25 years I've smoked off and on. Like our President, Barack Obama, I've taken great pains not to flaunt my tobacco addiction--preferring instead to puff in private. But, this week, I'm tobacco free.

Even though at my worst I never smoked that much, giving up cigarettes for me is a lot like not drinking coffee in the morning. I drink one cup of coffee EVERY morning. And, if I miss my coffee, I don't have cravings or headaches, I just don't feel quite right. It feels the same for me when I don't smoke. It's like I've forgotten to do something, and I can't remember what it is. My thought processes seem a little out of focus and my brain runs slower than normal. Also, rather than chilled and comfortable, I feel slightly cross and bothered. And, yeah, I'd like to eat everything in sight, too.

The problem for me is, rather than wanting to go running to get through the muddle, what I really want is a chocolate sundae. Or, better yet, I want a warm piece of cherry pie with a big scoop of ice cream. Yeah, and instead of working today, I'm having trouble finding a higher priority for my afternoon than watching Dirty Harry movies with a bag of Doritos in hand--and salsa, and cheese dip.

Fat people often say there's a thin person inside them trying to get out. With me it's the opposite. I'm a currently thin person whose fat self is just biding his time, playing cards, sitting back sipping martinis, waiting for thin Kevin to run out of steam. I feel such sympathy for Gollum! Remember when Smeagol wins the upper hand for a brief moment in The Lord of the Rings, and the creature seemed to tame his evil nature--only to succumb to temptation and revert to his nasty ways? I sincerely hope a serious backslide isn't in my future.

Wait a minute. Hope is not a plan! Yikes. A serious backslide is coming unless I come up with a counter attack strategy!

Don't worry, it's just my detoxing brain talking. Thin Kevin is not about to disappear. Not this month. He's gonna move away from the Twinkie, AND the Doritos, AND the Newport 100s. He's gonna race against cancer on Sunday. And, he's gonna start swimming with a bunch of fanatics beginning Wednesday. And he's not gonna stuff his face late at night. And he's gonna do this One Day At A Time. (cue up the music, please).

P.S. Wanna see some "before and after" pix. Look at my fitness blog, which is gonna help me stay fit and thin. That site is located at www.ididitucantoo.blogspot.com.

Would You Rather . . . ?

Have you ever played the board game "Would You Rather . . . ?" Designed for older children and adults, the game poses players a series of questions in which they are given the opportunity to pick one of two rather unorthodox situations. The point of the game is to reveal the inner thoughts and value systems of the players.

For example, you might be asked, "Would you rather lose your eyesight or your hearing?" How one answers that question reveals what kinds of interactions are most important to the player.

I've never seen this question posed in the game, but I'll pose it here. Would you rather be liked or admired? You should take some time before you answer. While most of us likely wish to be admired, at the same time being liked certainly makes your day go by easier. Admiration is generated by observation, while fondness comes through human interaction. I can admire someone I don't know--an athlete for their physical prowess; a business leader for their accomplishments; and an artist for their talents. The fact that these persons may fail in their relationships and treat the people around them rudely does not diminish my admiration for their achievements.

Fondness, however, is tied to our emotions. We like people who make us laugh, who remember our birthday, and who pay attention to our appearance. These interactions are personal. While we may not trust him or her with our life savings, we're more likely to invite a person we like to go fishing than the person voted most likely to succeed by our senior class in high school.

Ultimately, I want to be both liked and admired, but it's difficult to pull both off. A high achiever does many things that anger people who observe them. For example, if a person achieves due to their hard work, then the much larger group of people who don't work hard is reminded of their laziness. The admired achiever then gets maligned for being a workaholic, driven or called obsessed by those who would rather achieve without putting in the same effort.

Also, an admired achiever inevitably makes difficult choices that will also alienate others. For example, a person in business will choose some people to be their partners/associates and choose not to do business with others. If being liked were more important than success for that person, he or she would try hard not to offend anyone and could instead maintain unproductive business relationships that would undermine their success. Every successful business venture has created some enemies along the way.

This whole theme has been on my mind because for the past few weeks the director of the vocal music program at Isaac's high school has been mentioned in a variety of conversations day after day. The program is widely admired for its success--contest awards, highly regarded productions, large participation--but the director is widely criticized for an overbearing, some would say abusive, personality. She's called "crazy", "mean", and "bitchy"--and gossipers also enjoy speculating about her personal life. Yet, in the end, parents, students, and many in the community seem to bend over backwards to accomodate and please this director. I honestly wish my children were as concerned about my feelings! Maybe I should try throwing tantrums!

So, at the end of the day, if my choice is would I rather be Norm from Cheers, the guy everybody likes (but nobody takes seriously), or Ellen from Grosse Pointe South, the woman everybody admires (but many dislike), I'm going with Ellen. Maybe Norm sleeps better at night and rarely encounters conflict, but he's also spending his day on a barstool, not doing much for anybody. Maybe Ellen is gossipped about and maligned, but she also is changing lives (and taking names).

I guess the question isn't so difficult after all, is it?

Second Place or First Loser?

There seems to be a recurring theme with my son's baseball teams as of late. While blessed with tremendous talent, dedicated coaches, and supportive parents, this team gets close to the pinnacle of great success, only to falter at the finish line.

While their win/loss record is impressive, and they've beaten many talented teams along the way, in the end, does anyone really care who comes in second? The accolades always fall upon the victors, while the runners up dream of what might have been.

Last season after rolling through their district and state championship tournaments, as 12-year-olds, they fell in the semifinals at the regional tournament in Indianpolis and never made it to the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. This year again, a squad including most of the same players from last year's team, missed a state championship as 13-year-olds by one run. Most upsetting to me was that in their final game, while the other team kept scratching out runs, our boys wilted in the 90-degree heat and some key players sat out in the late innings to rest. In the end, their opponents won the championship, erasing any sting from two regular season losses to our team.

So, while our boy's accomplishments in baseball set them far above many of their peers, they still have not proven themselves to be champions. What is it that separates a champion from someone who is just really good? What do the boys from Grosse Pointe need to push them to that next level where they will reach the top, rather than simply settle for a pat on the back for a "good effort."

For what it's worth, here's what I think those boys need to be champions.

First, they need to put the interest of the team first. The old cliche "there's no 'I' in team" is a lesson these boys somehow lost. In Grosse Pointe, parents raise their children to be "superstars"--and, unfortunately not every person is going to be a superstar in everything. Especially on a team, success comes when role players play their appointed roles. The ace pitcher has to win every game. The closing pitcher must foil any late inning rallies. The short stop must make every play. The clean up hitter needs to drive in runs. And on, and on. Not every player is going to hit homeruns, or throw no hitters, or even play an important role in every game. However, if a player's job one day is to pinch run, then that pinch runner better not make a mistake on the base paths. The run scored by a pinch runner could be the difference in a game. In a tight baseball game, there are scores of opportunities for every player to make a significant impact on the outcome of the game.

However, if someone is unhappy with their appointed role, even if that role seems minor and unimportant, and fails to give their best effort no matter the situation, the team could lose the game. I've seen far too many pouty boys on this team--and it helps explain their lack of ultimate success.

Second, a successful team is not afraid of adversity. One loss typically doesn't end a season. One injured player should not make that big a difference. One bad inning doesn't mean the game is over.

For boys accustomed to easy victories, adversity sometimes feels terrifying. In the past, the Grosse Pointe team sometimes crumbled upon encountering difficult situations. Errors in the field seemed contagious. And the team morale sunk and could not rebound. While here the boys have shown improvement, they need to develop additional strategies for dealing with bumps in the road. We need a spark plug, a rallying cry, something to help the boys regain their focus, intensity, and confidence when the game seems to be slipping away.

Third, the boys need to develop leadership skills. While strong parents and coaches make a huge difference in the lives of teens, sometimes when the adults overmanage and overcontrol, young people fail to learn how to reach within themselves for the strength to succeed. Ultimately, it's the child who stands at the plate, throws the pitch, and catches the ball. No matter how hard the adults work with the child, the child ultimately must perform. If a teen has not stood up and taken responsibility for his own success and failures, they may not feel fully connected to the dream of winning a championship. After all, who's dream is it anyway? The player? The parent? The coaches? If the players are simply living out the dreams of their parents and coaches, they likely lack the spirit and intensity to be a champion. However, if the goal of winning is something the child wants with all his heart, then maybe he can muster enough passion to truly become a champion.

Make no mistake, I'm proud of the accomplishments of the 13-year-old baseball boys from Grosse Pointe, Michigan. Their record of achievement has been impressive. However, if they want to move beyond impressive, to . . . say, remarkable, then they need to learn how to play as a team, learn how to deal with adversity, and find the passion within themselves.

Next week we go to Battle Creek Michigan to see these boys make a run at a national championship. Personally, I believe, unless these boys think they have the skills, the passion, and the motivation to win this tournament, we should save our money and go to the pool instead. After all, winning may not be everything, but in sports, it's almost everything.

Triathlon Journal

Twenty two years ago something horrible happened to me. And, I tell the story all the time. If you've heard it before from me, sorry.

I was living in Chicago with my twin brother Brian. At the time we were into fitness. My brother and I ran 5K and 10K races many weekends--which gave me a pretty impressive T-Shirt collection.

That summer (1988) I decided to take my fitness goals to a whole new level and run a triathlon. At the time Bud Light beer sponsored a series of these events across the county and I signed up for the event in Chicago.

For two months I trained--running three times a week, riding my bicycle, and swimming laps in the local pool. I was not on any specific training plan for triathlons, but I was in great shape.

The day of the race was during a serious heatwave. Even though the event was held in downtown Chicago near Lake Michigan, at 8:00 a.m., it was already 85 degrees, sun blazing, and the temperature was rising. While most participants seemed well prepared for the event, wearing the latest exercise gear and with new, expensive bicycles, I felt completely clueless. I was wearing an old T-shirt, well-traveled running shoes and cotton gym shorts. My bike was a beat up Schwinn Continental.

A quarter of a mile from the finish line that day I swooned. Not just passed out, I had a full-fledged heat stroke, which meant I was carted off in an ambulance and pumped up with IV fluids until I was well enough to go home. While in the ambulance I remember praying out loud, believing I had suffered a heart attack, "God, please let me live and I promise I'll NEVER do anything this stupid again."

Well I lived, and that was the end of my competitive running career. Never another road race, triathlon, nothing. After all, I had made a promise to God and I quit racing cold turkey.

Through the years I've been rethinking those rash words uttered in the ambulance. Perhaps since I was under the false assumption I had suffered a heart attack, maybe my God would forget the triathlon promise. Also, in a true lawyer fashion, I thought of a hundred loopholes to my promise. Loopholes like: what did I really mean when I said, "nothing this stupid again."? Running a triathlon when it's nearly 90+ degrees? Yeah that's pretty stupid. Or, how about running with the wrong gear? Yeah, that's pretty stupid, too. So, if the weather was better, and I was better prepared, there should be no problem with the man upstairs if I were to try triathlons again . . . .

Fast forward twenty-two years. My daughter Lonelli has been on a personal mission to re-invent herself this year. One of the key components in this transformation has been an impressive training program with the goal of running a triathlon in August in Chicago. Eerily, the dates, course and distances are almost identical to the race twenty-two years ago where my competitive running career screeched to a halt. This summer, as part of her tune up for Chicago, Lonelli has participated in a number of mini-triathlons, which are called Sprints. In a sprint, a contestant swims, bikes, and runs, but the distances are roughly half the distances of a regular triathlon.

Clarisa and I went with Lonelli to her first Sprint a few weeks ago. The course was in a beautiful state park fifty miles north of Detroit. The day was perfect for a race, slightly overcast (no blazing sun) and seventy-five degrees. The course had a few hills, but nothing too challenging. The swim was held in a small lake.

For her first time racing, Lonelli did exceptionally well. And we all enjoyed the atmosphere at the event, lots of upbeat, fitness-oriented people encouraging one another along with their families and supporters. I had forgotten how fun these competitions can be. That day Lonelli suggested I do one of these tune up events with her--and my mind began to work.

In the six months since I left American Laser Centers, I've been on my own personal re-invention program, for which weight loss and improved fitness have been key components. And, a Sprint triathlon was definitely within my abilities.

When the summer began, I replaced running on the treadmill with daily, morning lap swims at the Grosse Pointe City pool. And in three weeks of training I worked my way up to a distance that was farther than the swimming portion of a Sprint. So I knew I could do the swim--I did it every day! And, the run was no problem. I exceeded the Sprint running distance at least three times a week during my regular workouts.

But, despite my optimism, three nagging thoughts dampened my enthusiasm. First, my bike is an ancient Schwinn Continental with a heavy steel frame and a headlight attached to the front. I bought it a few years ago for ten dollars at a second-hand shop as a joke--it reminded me of my old racing bike in Chicago! It was really not suitable for a race. Second, while I was capable of completing the triathlon components one event at a time, I had not combined any two of the events during the same workout since that ill-fated day twenty-two years ago. I needed to step up my training. And third, of course, there was the little matter of my promise to God . . . .

Without taking too much time to reflect or agonize over my concerns, I ended up throwing caution to the wind and signed up for a Sprint distance triathlon held on Belle Isle, which is a Detroit city park in the middle of the Detroit River. I decided my bike would have to work; I'd do some additional training; and, God would definitely understand. After all, I was doing this to support Lonelli!

So yesterday, at 7:30 a.m., I found myself standing in the Detroit River ready to begin my first triathlon in more than two decades. This time my gear was better--I was wearing a nice-knee length speedo bathing suit, which looked like every other contestant's suit. Further, I knew my shoes, shorts and shirt also were appropriate for the race. But, that old bike . . . .

I knew the swim would be a challenge, not so much because of the distance, but because of the conditions. Unlike swimming laps in lanes in a pool, an open water swim is far more difficult. Imagine what it's like with more than 100 men flailing away all around you, kicking, grabbing and trying to find some clear space to swim. Further, besides the crush of bodies, I experienced an adreneline rush at the sound of the opening horn. Within 100 meters I found myself hyperventilating. I almost panicked and quit the race. Fortunately, I was able to say a prayer, focus on my strokes, and I calmed down.

In the end, the swim went fine. And I felt good leaving the water and trotting to the transition area where I put on some shorts, my shirt, sunglasses, shoes and socks and hopped on my bike. All day I joked that I had the worst bike in the competition--which, in actuality was a true statement! The course was two laps around the island, which I completed. Since I had not trained a lot for biking, my strategy was simply to stick with a decent pace and save my legs for the run. I got passed A LOT during the bike portion. But, it was a beautiful day and I really enjoyed the 20 kilometers, it just took me forever to finish!

I felt surprisingly strong for my 5 kilometer run. As the course progressed, rather than slowing down, I sped up--and I found myself passing lots of competitors, many who were younger than me. I even had a nice little kick at the end of the course and crossed the finish line feeling pretty good.

Amazingly, in my first completed triathlon, I finished fourth in my age group (men between the ages of 45 and 49). I was ecstatic. When the final results were posted, however, I found out I was fourth out of a group of six competitors, which was less impressive. However, my run was the fastest speed for any man over 45 by more than two minutes. My swim, while not among the fastest times, was middle-of-the pack. But, the bike. . . . The man who won my age group swam slightly faster than me, ran a lot slower than me, but finished the bike portion TWELVE MINUTES ahead of me. I finished dead last in the bike. I may have been the slowest male biker in the competition!

When I picked up my bike as we were getting ready to leave, a group of people came up to me and said, "We wanted to see who rode this bike."

"Why?" I asked. "This is the worst bike here."

"Yeah," said one in the group, "you rode a 'ton speed.'"

"I know," I responded. "Feel how heavy this puppy is." The young man was amazed a racing bike weighed so much.

The first person spoke again. "We wanted to tell you that this bike is a collector's item. Have you ever tried to sell it? We were concerned someone might try to grab this bike and we wanted to be sure the owner claimed it." That was funny. Thousand dollar bikes all around and they were concerned someone might take my second-hand Schwinn!

Now my mind is racing. If I improve by bike time by six or seven minutes I can win won of these competitions. I need to sign up for another event. If I sell the Schwinn, I can pay for a decent racer!

Is this a new obsession? We'll see.

A Father's Pride

I have great kids.

And this is not the wine talking, really. OK, maybe I have enjoyed a couple of cold glasses of Chardonnay, and it's been a spectacularly beautiful summer's day in Michigan. But even with those mood elevating conditions, I still have to say, my kids are phenomenal.

I look at them and I'm amazed. How did an ordinary, kind of dorky guy like me contribute such extraordinary individuals to the human race? And what's even more amazing is that, so far, we're batting 1,000 with this brood. They are handsome, smart, loving and kind--all of them! They have risen above their father in so many ways and continue to grow. God bless them.

Today is Father's Day and I'm deeply in love with my four children. It's not just that they've shown me special Father's Day kindness--though the gifts were nice, the hand written cards charming, and the meals they prepared delicious and designed to please me--it's just that I can't stop looking at them and feeling overwhelming joy and pride.

I want to introduce you to them.

Our oldest son is Angel. Many have said few men have been more appropriately named than him. He's truly angelic in nature. Still, for me, his finest quality is his compassion that seems to know no bounds. He will give you the shirt off his back, the last dollar in his wallet, and his last ounce of energy if that's what you need. And, unlike most, Angel never feels jealousy over the accomplishments of others. If you're enjoying success at anything, Angel will sincerely share your joy. Similarly, if you're feeling despair, Angel will go to that dark place with you and be your only friend, if that's what you need. I've never known anyone with Angel's capacity for empathy--it's a trait his friends and family sometime don't fully appreciate, but yet delight in benefitting from.

Next comes Lonelli. Yes she's the one featured in the photo at top. This picture was snapped today after she completed her first ever triathalon. Understand that Lonelli has suffered some serious injuries in her day and feels constant pain--yet she has doggedly soldiered through the pain to reach her fitness goals. I've never met a more determined person than Lonelli. When she embraces a goal, she pursues that goal with unwaivering determination until she achieves it. She does it over and over, like her campaign to gain admission to the U.S. Naval Academy, to earning a full-ride scholarship to the Darden School of Business at the University of Virginia, to snagging a much-sought-after marketing position in Detroit in the midst of one of the most severe economic downturns this country has ever seen. And while pursuing these goals, Lonelli actively enlists the support of friends and family, because she knows their support is crucial to her on-going success. Lonelli knows what she wants and can formulate solid plans to reach her destination. I wish I had her drive.

As if the accomplishments of the older two are not impressive enough, what can I say about 18-year-old Amelia? Her most recent achievements prove that hard work and consistent efforts bear amazing fruit. How else can you explain her impressive first-year college GPA (3.73) and earning an "A" in her recent South Africa travel seminar, when fellow classmates, who included upperclassmen and law students, struggled to pass the class. How else can you explain why Amelia was recognized by her Drake professors this year as one of the school's top ten freshman (out of a class of 800+ students) despite a demanding academic schedule, a full load of extracurricular activities and leadership positions and holding down a part-time job? She even found time to have a boyfriend! Few teenagers I know demonstrate her gutsy maturity.

And finally, our youngest Isaac--a child whose talents seem endless. Rarely have I seen a person who is so good at so many things--and he never seems to show off. Children and adults alike recognize his musical aptitude, his athletic prowess, and his academic accomplishments and agree that he deserves success. People root for him because he's charming not arrogant and is a friend to all. He oozes charisma and flashes wit at appropriate and sometimes inappropriate moments, but no one seems to mind when he goes over the top. As he grows into young adulthood, Isaac will face unique challenges and temptations, yet he's just so clearheaded and loveable, I expect he'll face those challenges with his typical flair.

Scripture urges parents to train up children in the way that they should go and promises that when they are old, they will not depart from it. I believe that my children have benefitted from my wisdom, my love, and my usually gentle guidance. However, as a far-from perfect parent, I have no right to take that much credit for their achievements. Their accomplishments belong to them. My wife, our families, nuturing teachers, church leaders and others all have helped mold my children and have encouraged them to push themselves beyond simply what is expected. As a result, my children still believe the world is full of mountains to climb and opportunities to experience.

I am full of love and pride for them today. For me, every day is Father's Day.

Better a Living Dog . . .

"Whoever is joined with the living has hope, for better a living dog than a dead lion." Ecclesiastes 9:4

First, I wanted to be cop.

I remember going to a Thanksgiving Day parade in downtown Detroit and seeing handsome officers in their dress blues riding beautifully groomed horses down Woodward Avenue. The policemen were stern faced and seemed oblivious to the crush of onlookers. At that moment I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a cop--because cops ride horses in parades! I was five years old. My ambition changed in August 1967 when I witnessed police officers clubbing suspected vandals with truncheons during the terrifying days of the Detroit riots, when my city was set aflame with hatred and violence. I no longer wanted to be a policeman. I was six years old.

Later I wanted to be an architect because of a drafting class I had in school. After that I wanted to fly helicopters, raise cattle, and own my own business. In high school my dream of being elected the governor of the State of Iowa was so well known that a friend purchased for me stationery with my embossed name and title: "Governor Kevin Piecuch". I think I still have some of those sheets in a box in my basement.

And, like every child who loves popular culture, I also imagined conquering the world as a rock star. That ambition I kept to myself.

And yes, being a lawyer was also a dream, one deeply held and one I attained a little later than I planned . . . but it was one dream I realized. Other than finding a life partner or raising children, I can't think of anything sweeter than achieving your dreams. It's true.

As a person get's older, however, you realize that many amazing dreams you ached to achieve as a youth will never be realized. And as these dreams wilt and fade, and fall away like blooms off a flowering tree, you somehow feel your life has lost a little bit of beauty. And when you look at yourself--you stop seeing the future star, but instead stare at the ordinary guy you never wanted to be, but now find yourself anyway.

To make matters worse, with age you not only lose dreams, but you realize missed opportunities, times where you see in retrospect that, but for a bad decision or some other mistake, you might have achieved something special and maybe enjoyed a better life. Dreams fade and regrets haunt, no wonder so many old folks are depressed.

If you are taunted by feelings of anguish because your life has not turned out quite the way you planned, you must listen carefully to the writer of Ecclesiastes. Life is a remarkable gift--and as long as you have life and breath you always have hope for a better tomorrow. To spend your life, however, chasing ghosts and aching over things you cannot change achieves nothing, instead it wastes your life, which is the most precious gift all of us share.

Remember, regardless of how you got to your present reality, you possess talent, skills and experiences that make you valuable. Maybe you're not the lion (or the governor, or the cattle rancher) but that's not to say that being the dog is worthless. I just read that dogs are now being trained to detect certain cancers in humans through their keen senses of smell--isn't that remarkable? And, getting to be the lion in the world sometimes requires paying a steep price. The sheer effort to get to the top has brought ruin to many (look at Detroit's former mayor Kwame Kilpatrick). Sometimes, maybe it is better to be the living dog than the dead lion.

I'm all for driving ourselves to use our talents and achieve goals. No need to be ordinary slobs who sleepwalk through life not really trying to improve the world. At the same time, stop beating yourself up over lost dreams and missed opportunities.

While all young people dream of better lives, there's no reason why us old folks can't be optimists and dreamers, too! And, our dreams should be all that more vivid, attainable and less naive because they are colored by our own experiences.

As long as you have life and breath, look forward with hope and don't look backwards with regret. See how looking backwards worked out for Lot's wife? I'd rather be like John the Evangelist who at 90 years old could still envision a new heaven and a new earth where every tear was wiped away and every sorrow healed.

I'm launching a new business next week, one that is going to change my life . . . again. And, later, I have some other rocking plans poised to help real people. What dreams are you planning to achieve this week? Let me know, because I'm here to cheer you on. LIVING DOGS UNITE!!

Pleasures of Plain Vanilla

When I go to an ice cream shop, I'm struck by all the choices. Some of the flavors sound really interesting. Others sound kind of gross. But me, I pretty much order the same flavor every time. Maybe I'll mix it up with sprinkles, or if I'm really indulgent a waffle cone, but in the end I usually end up with one of my tried and true favorites. And, when I do switch things up and stray from my favorite flavor, invariably I say, "that was OK, but not as good as . . . ."

I should stick to my Baskin Robbins pattern in other areas of my life. After all, good doesn't stop being good simply because its familiar. Conversely, bad isn't a good choice simply because its different.

For most of us, thriving in life has meant striving to "be good." You know what I mean: honesty, hard work, and loyalty are necessary qualities for people who are successful in school, their careers and in their relationships. Further, those of us who are attached to religious faiths are mindful of whole lists of behaviors, attitudes and actions that bring us into a right relationship with our creator.

And those of us who have been "good" in our lives know that goodness brings real rewards and blessings. One cannot truly feel the pleasures of academic achievement, earn respect and admiration of business associates, and build solid, meaningful relationships without goodness. Further, while God graciously reaches out to us even if we've sunk to the lowest depths (yes, I've been there), how much healthier and satisfying are the times when we're open to the moving of God's Spirit within us on a daily basis, when we're not running and hiding from God (like Adam and Eve in the Garden) but actively seeking God's face (like Moses on Mt. Sinai).

Strange thing for me is that despite my experiences, every day I find myself in the ice cream store making choices. And, despite the fact that I already know what tastes good, I stand there and contemplate every offering. Sometimes I find the choice agonizing. I say to myself, "Maybe I should try Blueberry Cheesecake just this once? Maybe I'm missing something? Can I stand not knowing what that flavor tastes like?"

The Holy Scriptures tell us that the Tempter appears to humanity as an Angel of Light, who is very attractive to the eyes. Further, people of faith know that the Tempter works hard to confuse the righteous. The Tempter tells us to eat the forbidden fruit because doing so will make us wise. The Tempter tells us there are short cuts to fame and fortune. The Tempter tells us no one will ever know . . . . And the words of the Tempter can stick in our brains urging us to take the broad, easy path in life.

However, Jesus said that broad is the way and easy is the path that leads to destruction, and many are those who travel it. But narrow is the way and difficult is the path that leads to life and few are those who find it.

It's ironic how deceiving appearances can be. While being good appears to be the conventional choice, and being rebellious seems brave and courageous, as far as personal morality is concerned, the opposite is true. Resisting temptation is far more difficult than giving in. Being lazy takes much less effort than hard work. And why tell the truth (if it gets you in trouble) when lying is soooo easy.

My fascination with sin, fueled by a steady diet of television crime dramas and questionable "research" on the internet continues to surprise me. One would think that after years of seeing that the pleasures of sin are shortlived and ultimately leave a very bitter taste in your mouth, I would easily choose goodness. But yet, there I am, every day, looking at all those flavors and wondering, "Maybe I'm missing something. Maybe just this once . . . ."

God help us all. Goodness and righteousness may seem dull, conventional and boring, yet without them we cannot find peace, happiness and fulfillment.

Choose your flavors wisely.

Yeah I Like Coney Islands

After five months of healthy eating, I was wondering whether I had lost my taste for fast food. Without regular fixes of Taco Bell chalupas, White Castle sliders, and Subway meatball sandwiches, I found myself 20 pounds lighter and my "bad" cholesterol at a respectable number. Can't say I've been craving those foods either.

But, in the last couple of weeks, unique fast food opportunities came my way, and I felt compelled to indulge. First one came in Iowa. During several road trips this year traveling back of forth to Des Moines with my college daughter Amelia I saw an oversized, illuminated sign advertising a fast food restaurant from my youth. Right off of I-80, mid way between Iowa City and Des Moines, a Maid-Rite hamburger shop beckoned me.

I ate Maid-Rites a lot during my teenage years in Muscatine, Iowa. In case you've never tasted a Maid-Rite hamburger, this franchise specializes in loose meat sandwiches. Rather than grilling or frying hamburger patties, at Maid-Rite hamburger meat is sauteed in an open pan along with chopped onions and a secret combination of salt, pepper and spices. This meat is served up on a bun along with dill pickle slices.

Maid-Rite style sandwiches briefly achieved national attention when Rosanne Barr opened a restaurant on her television show where they served, you guessed it, loose-meat hamburgers. Rosanne discovered Maid-Rites when she and her former husband Tom Arnold lived in Ottumwa, Iowa. I'm not sure if she loved the sandwich or thought the idea of loose meat hamburgers was so ridiculous that it became a running gag on her comedy show.

Joke or not, every time I passed the restaurant I wanted to eat a Maid-Rite. And I always said to my fellow passengers, "Let's stop and get one. They're great!"

So last week, driving back from Des Moines, my wife agreed to stop at the restaurant under the giant Maid-Rite sign. She was probably sick of hearing me talk about these sandwiches. While I couldn't persuade her to try one, I was almost giddy with aniticpation.

The restaurant was clean and modern--not the dingy, greasy smelling hole in the wall I remember--which was a good sign. And the menu had expanded. Not just the traditional Maid-Rite, the restaurant offered new fare, like a Cheese Rite (which was slathered in Cheese Whiz); a Bacon Cheese Rite (add hard bacon bits); and even a Texas BBQ-Rite (bring on the barbeque sauce!). I elected a "Classic" Maid-Rite, which was the sandwich I remembered. And, and the sandwich delivered to my table featured and big bun and a heaping mound of loose, cooked hamburger meat. I took a bite, and . . . the Maid-Rite prompted no memories. In fact, the sandwich was kind of bland actually. Ketchup and hot sauce helped a little. Not sure what I found so delicious in a Maid-Rite when I was a teen. Not special at all. Guess I won't be stopping next time, not even if I need a Cheese Whiz fix! Such disappointment.

On Friday last week, my hankering for fast food hit me again when I found myself in Philadelphia. After Maid-Rites turned out to be less tastey than I remembered, maybe my tastebuds would find redemption in a new fast food. For years I heard of the much bragged about Philly Cheesesteak but had never tasted one. An opportunity to try the sandwich presented itself in the Philadelphia airport where I had time during a layover to try one for myself.

The sandwich was not what I expected. I imagined the cheese was going to be yellow--either sharp cheddar, American, or Velveta. And the steak--well I expected seasoned chunks of beef that looked liked pieces of a sirloin steak piled on a hoagy bun. Guess what? That is NOT a Philly Cheesesteak. The Philly Cheesesteak I ate in the Philadelphia airport, and I got a "loaded" version that included grilled peppers, mushrooms and onions, was bland, kind of like the Maid-Rite sandwich I had four days earlier.

The meat in a Philly Cheesesteak looked like the flat pieces you get in a gyro, only this meat was not seasoned like a gyro, in fact I couldn't taste any seasoning at all! And the cheese was not yellow cheese, but white. But not good white cheese like gouda, mozzarella or swiss, this sandwich featured soft Philadephia Cream Cheese. Does that sound good to you? Philly Cream Cheese and hot beef together? In a sandwich? I like Philly Cream Cheese in celery sticks and on top of bagels, with capers and red onions, but as a complement to tasteless gyro meat . . . yuck.

To get over the disappointment of my Maid-Rite hamburger and first-ever Philly Cheesesteak, I knew I some needed truly delicious fast food. I wanted to remember that high-fat, high-sodium, inexpensive menu items could actually satisfy. So, last night Isaac and I hauled ourselves to our local National Coney Island and ordered some truly good fast food: a "classic" Coney Island sandwich. For those of you not from my neck of the woods, a Coney Island is a hotdog served with mustard (never ketchup), chopped onions and chili (no beans) on a steamed bun. As if that wasn't enough all by itself, we also ordered chili cheese fries (bring on more chili and copious amounts of Cheese Whiz) and a spicy hani (seasoned chunks of chicken, chopped sauteed veggies inside a pita).

Look at the attached photo. Doesn't that look good? Doesn't Isaac look happy with our meal? And yes, we're drinking Diet Cokes. Very satisfying. I'm going back to health food knowing that there are still artery clogging choices I can enjoy any time I feel like falling off the low fat, low carb, low sodium band waggon.

Now that's fast food, Detroit style!

Beer Snob Diary

Thursday evening found me in a world of hurt and I desperately needed a liquid getaway. Before I sound like a roaring alky, let me explain what happened that evening and maybe you won't think poorly of me.

This Thursday my wife and I drove from our home to our daughter's college so that we could be with her after she finished her freshman year and to send her off on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to South Africa that begins this next week. It's a long drive from Grosse Pointe to Des Moines--at least 600 miles--and I drove every mile. Further, my wife and I found ourselves engaged in deep and meaningful conversation virtually the entire trip. Needless to say, after nine hours of driving and non-stop talking, I needed a drink.

At midnight, however, my options for finding alcoholic beverages were limited. I wasn't going to a bar and the grocery stores that sold my preferred beers and wines had all since closed. Instead, I visited a popular convenience store next to campus that provides libations to many Drake students. So, at midnight, I walked into the Kum and Go, yes, that's the name of the store, Kum and Go, to find a beer.

The place was packed with young, scruffy looking folks, most of whom were standing in front of the beer case. I quickly scanned my choices: Bud, Bud Light, Coors, Coors Light, Miller, Miller Lite, and . . . well I kept looking for other choices. Sam Adams? Nope. Leinenkugel Red--we were in the Midwest after all. Nope. They had to have Rolling Rock--wasn't that a popular college beer? Apparently not at Drake. In fact, in that beer case I couldn't find a single beer I'd consumed in the past 25 years! Out of desperation, I grabbed the one beer I'd never heard of--it was 18 ounces and only cost $1--how bad could it be? So I grabbed two Steel Reserves and tried to leave the Kum and Go as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten how difficult it is to escape a convenience store at midnight, especially when there was only one barely functional cashier working (who did not speak English as his first language). Do you remember how college students buy drinks? I had forgotten. Especially during finals week, one friend collects money from all his/her friends and runs over to the Kum and Go and buys one beverage apiece for every friend in the dorm who gave them money. Apparently nobody at college treats their friends--they pay for each beverage individually. Needless to say, I stood in that line a long time.

And not everyone in the Kum and Go was a college student. The guy in front of me, besides buying his Mountain Dew, also bought a hot dog out of the hot dog warmer. I can't imagine that a college student, even a hungry one, would ever eat a nasty hot dog that had been sitting all day in that hot dog warmer spinning in front of a greasy light bulb. Gross. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Little did I know that Steel Reserve is actually a popular brew among college students. It's a malt beverage with a higher alcohol content than normal beer--and is most typically purchased in 40 ounce bottles. Now that would have been a hoot--me walking out of the Kum and Go in Des Moines with a 40-ounce Steel Reserve in a brown paper bag! My wife is convinced I'm trying to relive my youth--maybe I've just proved her point because I actually enjoyed the Steel Reserve. I don't know if out of exhaustion, thirst, or my intense need to unwind, but the drink went down fast--and I fell fast asleep about five minutes after it was gone.

Yep, I enjoyed my first experience with a Steel Reserve, however, not as much as I enjoyed another brew I tasted last night for the first time. We had dinner at the Court Avenue Brewing Company, which is a popular Des Moines restaurant that is similar to hundreds of other microbreweries in the U.S. The owners took a turn-of-the century retail building and converted it into a hip restaurant. Think high ceilings, hardwood floors, outdoor seating, antique signs on the walls, a massive bar and lots of noise. But, unlike other similar establishments, the Court Avenue Brewing Company had an interesting menu and the brews they produced actually tasted good.

Again, I was in the mood to drink. The primary reason for my alcohol thirst was that I was meeting my freshman daughter's boyfriend for the first time. The bartender offered a large selection of beers on tap, but I felt compelled to drink the "Honest Lawyer IPA" draft. I didn't know what an IPA was, but I ordered it anyway. It was good.

IPA stands for India Pale Ale, which is a class of light-colored beers that are especially appropriate for summer drinking. The one made by the Court Avenue Brewing Company had a hint of citrus and went down quickly and easily. Drinking the IPA helped put me in the right mood to meet Byron.

Actually the boyfriend was delightful--confident, handsome, with an easy smile and clear appreciation for my daughter. He was respectful toward my wife and answered all our questions (and we had a lot of questions) without a hint of discomfort or resentment. While both Byron and Amelia are far too young to think longterm, it appears they are well suited for each other at this time in their lives.

We're now engaged in helping Amelia pack for her trip. Fortunately, we're staying in a suite with a small refrigerator that I've stocked with enough Stella Artois to keep me in the right frame of mind through her Tuesday send off.

I'll talk to you again when I get home.

Twenty Things

This will be my twentieth blog posting. While I anticipated writing more often when I started in January, it's still a lot of words. Thank you for those who have slogged through all those words with me.

The number twenty came up again last week when Clarisa and I celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary. You know, twenty is a big number. And the idea that we've been together this many years is amazing. Despite a lot of challenges, we've done pretty well together--and I expect we've got at least another twenty years more in the gas tank. So, stay tuned.

To honor twenty years of marriage, I want to share with you twenty things I love about my wife Clarisa. I can think of a lot more nice things to say about her, so this list is not exhaustive. Also, I'm not trying overly hard to be romantic nor am I saying that these twenty things are the twenty best things about my wife. All I'm saying is that I gave myself twenty minutes to come up with a list, and here it is:

1. I love her name. Clarisa Caridad. Really poetic, don't you think? She's the first person I ever met named Clarisa. The second is her aunt (and namesake) in Panama. Caridad is Spanish for "Charity". Oh, and if you're going to say her name, say it correctly. Emphasize the middle vowel--it's Clar E sa, not Clar isssa. That's how it's said in Spanish, and I really think it sounds prettier that way.

2. I love her heritage. I've long said that we really stirred up the gene pool when we made children together. I mean what a mix! She's got African blood by way of Jamaica. She's got east Indian blood (you should see the photos of her turbaned great grandfather) by way of Bombay. She's got white Spaniards and native Panamanians all mixed in there for good measure. Talk about diversity, she's a whole United Nations all in one person.

3. I love that she's bilingual. I don't know too many people who are completely fluent in multiple languages. The remarkable thing about Clarisa is that she speaks English like an American (no hint of an accent), and she speaks Spanish like a Panamanian. And to boot, she's not too bad at French and Portuguese! I'm in awe of her language abilities--it makes her accessible to so many people.

4. I love her complexion. How to describe it? Deep tan? Honey brown? Rich copper? Anyway you look at it, she has amazing skin and really doesn't need make up.

5. I love her legs. This is the last physical attribute I'm going to mention. Trust me, there's a lot more to say about her body, but I'm going to share that with her privately. About those legs--she's 50+ years old and not one spot of cellulite. It's true! Her legs are long and shapely and lovely in short skirts.

6. I love that she's passionate about every detail in her life. I don't care if Clarisa's washing clothes, entertaining guests, or settling some world crisis, everything she does feels important. She sweats every detail and never relaxes her standards. Never.

7. I love that Clarisa loves children. And they love her, too. What's unusual about my wife is that she never condescends to a child. She speaks to them directly, often in the same tone and using the same language that she uses with adults. She also remembers important details about their lives, and asks questions about these details. That's why she's so successful as a room mother, a Sunday school teacher, and a class sponsor. Hundreds of children know her by name and are not ashamed to greet her when they meet her in the street.

8. I love how she makes bacalao. I could have just as easily said chicken and rice, sugar cookies or skirt steak, but bacalao was the first home cooked meal she made for me and I've loved it ever since. For those who don't know bacalao, it's kind of a stew made with salted cod fish. I know, it sounds gross, but it's really good when made with love . . . and lots of coconut milk!

9. I love how Clarisa resists routines. When life seems mundane, Clarisa makes changes. Even when running errands, she doesn't drive the same paths over and over. In our house, the furniture gets rearranged regularly. Dinner is never at the same hour from day to day, and you're never quite sure whether that standing appointment is going to stand from week to week. The only things predictable in our lives are surprises.

10. As much as Clarisa resists routines, I love her diehard embrace of meaningful traditions. From year-to-year Clarisa is the one who insists that we continue traditions. For example, every year, at her insistance, we sit down together and share daily family devotions during Lent; we light candles and say prayers during Advent; birthdays are celebrated with homemade cakes; and newlyweds always receive creches for their first Christmas. Maintaining these traditions requires time, attention and money. Still, Clarisa proudly soldiers on, carrying the torch for traditions, despite lack of cooperation from the rest of us.

11. I love that Clarisa expects the best. She never settles for lesser models or slapdash efforts. She expects jobs to be completed correctly, that the goods she purchases are top quality, and that individuals give their best efforts in whatever they do.

12. I love her firm faith. Since I have the seminary degree, people assume I'm the religious one, but the person with real faith in my family is my wife. Her vibrant prayer life, devotion to Scripture, and very public faith witness are authentic expressions of her faith. While I seem stuck in shadows of doubt, Clarisa's faith propels her fearlessly forward. Her trust in God's goodness is truly awe inspiring.

13. I love Clarisa's compassion. Again, this may come as a surprise, but she's the softy, I'm the hardhead when it comes to people's needs. She wants to help the widows, the orphans, the people in distress, and she motivates me to feel likewise.

14. I love that Clarisa is the least intimidated person I know. Powers and princes mean nothing to her--she will speak her mind fearlessly, no matter the situation. I've become a braver, stronger person since I've known her.

15. I love that Clarisa loves baseball. It's my favorite sport and it would have been a shame not to share this interest. I know her love of baseball didn't start with me because her love for the game is genuine, longstanding, and passionate. We'll never forget that walkoff homerun we saw in 2007 in Detroit that that clinched the ALCS.

16. I love that Clarisa loves our life together. Many people I know wish their lives were different or pine for people and places far away from their homes. Not Clarisa. She's right where she wants to be in her world, and the fact she's content gives the rest of us great peace.

17. I love that Clarisa is devoted to her offspring. Though they may say she treats them differently, I see clearly her love and commitment to all four of our children. She defends them with every ounce of her being and never stops thinking of ways to help them.

18. I love that she has insisted that her family embrace me. It has always been Clarisa's belief that I was part of her family--and since the day we were married, she has insisted that her family treat me as one of their own and not as an alien outsider.

19. I love that Clarisa tries hard to please others, even when it hurts. For my 45th birtday, I was excited about a romantic long weekend in Quebec I had planned for the two of us. Though she was sick as a dog, Clarisa without a complaint dragged herself through museums and stores and sat through endless meals and even pulled off the sexy, negligee-wearing temptress at night, just to please me. I would have taken two Tylenol and gone to bed, but not Clarisa. And it's not just for me, Clarisa works hard to please every family member and friend in her life and I love that about her.

Finally, #20, I love that Clarisa loves me. During good times and even when we don't get along, I've never doubted her love, not once in twenty years. That's saying a lot.

Am I a Bad Parent (or just insenitive)?

No matter how hard you try, parents cannot protect their children from every danger. Toddlers fall down and bust their lips; elementary school kids fall out of trees; middle schoolers don't always wear pads when they roller blade; and high schoolers? Since they have wheels, and money, and fearlessness, there's no limit to the potential dangers they face. And your out-of-school young adults? They may be out of sight, but they're never out of mind.

Worst telephone call I ever received was years ago on a Saturday in early February when my oldest son told me my oldest daughter Lonelli had suffered a serious skiing accident. They were both in high school at the time. I was home alone and felt immediate, overwhelming panic. My son told me she was being transported by ambulance to a hospital in Pontiac and that I should get there as soon as possible. Compounding my fear was the fact that Clarisa was at a retreat and could not be easily reached by telephone. I had to handle this by myself. So, I got in the car and sped to the hospital, worrying all the way.

I experienced no similar panic Saturday when I watched my son break his leg right before my eyes. It barely registered a response.

Isaac was playing in a baseball tournament and was having his best game yet. In two innings of pitching he struck out three batters with a nasty curve ball and hadn't allowed a runner on base. In other words, he had a perfect game going. Then, in the top of the third, he hit a looping single into right field. The outfielder misplayed the ball and Isaac saw an opportunity to stretch a single into a double. Unfortunately, the center fielder got the ball quickly and made a good throw to second base. Isaac tried to slide under the tag without success. He was out. Worse, he was also in pain.

Isaac hobbled off the field wincing every step. It looked to me like he turned his ankle on the slide. Then I worried whether he could return to the mound and pitch. I was also a little embarrassed about my son's base running. With his speed, he would have stolen second base anyway. Why did he have to get greedy?

With his coach tending to the ankle, I stayed away from the dugout. After the side was retired, Isaac hopped up and headed out to the mound. He wanted to continue pitching, however, after a few steps, he turned around and told his coach he was unable to keep throwing. His leg really hurt. I was disappointed. After watching other teammates that weekend leave games with various injuries, none of which seemed too serious, now my son, the ultimate tough kid, had joined the ranks of the quitters. How embarrassing!

Now the injury got my attention. Isaac would never leave a game with a perfect game going unless he was hurting. Coach said it was a high ankle sprain and he wrapped his lower leg in ice. Isaac remained on the bench that inning, but he had difficulty focusing on the game. He was in pain and his face showed it.

By the middle of the fourth inning, Coach came to Clarisa and me and told us to take Isaac home. "He's not going to do any pinch running today," he said with a forced laugh. While I understood it was distracting for the team to have an injured player in agony on the bench, it seemed a little cold to be kicked out so abruptly. And, again, I felt sightly embarrassed. Why couldn't my son mask his pain better and keep his best game face on? We were winning after all.

At that point none of us--not me, not Coach, not his mother, not even Isaac, believed his leg was broken. In fact, I had Isaac walk with me nearly a quarter mile to our car for the trip home. While Isaac wrapped one arm around my shoulder, he walked the whole way.

Who's embarrassed now?

"The right fibula has a spiral fracture," Dr. Leone said flatly to me an hour later in the Emergency Room at Cottage Hospital.

"His leg is broken?" I responded with obvious amazement.

"Yes, but the bone is not displaced," replied Dr. Leone. "Do you need a referral to an orthopedic surgeon?"

Surgeon? Broken leg? Jesus Christ, was this some kind of sick joke? We only went to the ER because my wife insisted. I never imagined the boy sustained a serious injury. My face turned bright red with embarrassment.

I wasn't the only one who felt shame that day. The dismissive coach--yeah the guy who evicted us from the game--when he heard the news of Isaac's broken leg, he called the house twice to inquire about the boy's condition. He also personally spoke to an orthopedic surgeon and arranged for us to have an appointment first thing on Monday. "He's the best in town," said Coach. Guilt has a way of motivating action.

Now time for me to reflect.

If one of my daughters had been in pain that day, I would have carried her in my arms all the way to the car. I would have felt fear over her condition. And, I would have done everything in my power to keep her comfortable. My son received far less compassion. I made him walk on a broken leg and didn't feel that much concern for his pain. "If he couldn't handle it, he'd tell me," I thought. Kinda brutal, don't you think? Isaac did not complain about the walk to the car or the bumpy ride to the hospital. He didn't say a word, though his quiet tears communicated a different story.

Later on, Isaac said he was relieved to hear that his leg was broken. He said that a broken leg proved he wasn't being a wimp. And, God knows, nothing worse than being a wimp!

I've heard many parents say it's easier to raise boys than girls. Girls' lives are full of obvious drama. Their moods swing wildly as they deal with school and relationships. Young girls are vocal about their feelings, and, as a parent, it can be exhausting trying to remain sympathetic when their problems sound so trivial.

Boys, on the other hand, learn early on to suppress their feelings. While adults allow girls to express themselves freely, boys learn that its unbecoming to cry, to fret over who likes them and who doesn't, or pay attention to their appearance. And physical pain? We tell our boys they should "man up" and stop "acting like a little girl." So boys bury pain, fear, and emotions deep inside.

Boys aren't easier to raise than girls, parents simply spend less time helping them sort through their issues. And I'm guilty, too. I consider myself a sensitive father. However, on Saturday I was disappointed in my son when I should have been comforting him.

As penance for my bad behavior, I have been appointed Isaac's manservant during his school's three-day field trip to Chicago. Clarisa had signed up to chaperone, but now with a wheelchair and crutches in tow, we believe it will be easier for Isaac if his Dad assumes the burden of lifting, carrying, etc. We also think his friends will more likely hang out with him if I'm there. After all, how many 13-year-old boys want to be around someone whose Mommy is caring for him non-stop? My wife has serious questions about whether I will properly attend to Isaac in Chicago. I tell her not to worry, I've learned my lesson.

I want my son to feel secure expressing his feelings around me without fear of retribution or encountering my disapproval. At the same time, I want him prepared to live in a world where men are expected to be strong, level-headed, and with their emotions kept firmly in check. I want to help him grow into being a strong, confident man. But, in the process of helping him become a man, I don't want to crush his spirit or create a macho monster. How do I strike that balance? Carefully.

First, I must constantly nurture his self confidence. Isaac must know that I respect his achievements and that I'm always in his corner. The better Isaac feels about himself, the more likely he'll feel comfortable expressing emotions and feelings. If he knows my love is secure, the more likely the subtle messages of disapproval will brush off.

Second, Isaac must choose his friends carefully. Middle schoolers can be brutal. Boys who express their feelings are sometimes labeled as wimps, whiners, fags. They are laughed at and can be the butts of cruel pranks. Isaac must know that to persecute other boys because they seem weak, or even to approve of such bullying behavior, is evil and cannot be tolerated. He can do even more. While he might put his popularity at risk, Isaac can model positive behaviors to his peers--like befriending a maligned child.

Finally I need to model sensitive behavior, too. Seems like the emotions Isaac gets from me are joy when he achieves things, and anger when, well when he acts up. I can show him more emotional range.

For example, I should show him tenderness. I hug and kiss my wife and daughters, I must do the same with him. It is not unmanly for a father to love his son and to show it through tenderness. I should also share with him other feelings. He should know sometimes when I'm afraid, when I'm lonely, and when I feel weak. How is Isaac supposed to deal with those feelings if he's never seen a man deal with similar feelings, especially a man he knows and trusts?

After writing this posting I still have a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. I failed my son and it doesn't feel good. It's clear that despite my best efforts, I'm an overly competitive, insensitive boor who failed to care properly for my child when my child needed me. In the end, while you cannot stop bad things from happening to your children, a parent can control how they react when these bad things happen. I can do better. I'm not looking for you to reassure me that how I acted wasn't that bad. I'm looking to change--and I hope that by sharing this story, I'm taking a positive step toward being a better father.

Hungry?

In the past four months I've lost 20 pounds, which is great, since I had at least that much to lose after years of living it up at American Laser Centers. People have asked me to share my weight loss secrets. And, I must reply, the secret is simple. Wanna lose weight? Simply eat less and exercise more.

Well, for me it has not been THAT simple. Reasons for my success are more nuanced. Eating less is not that difficult when you're not around a lot of extra food and business partners who were notorious over-indulgers. Not eating those daily Panera lunches with soup, sandwiches AND cookies; not eating dinner at Bacco with cocktails AND flan for dessert; not eating the candy, chips, and baked goods that were ever present at the office--avoiding those extra calories makes a difference.

Further, being out of work has given me motivation to improve my appearance. I don't want to look like a slob on job interviews! And, exercising five hours a week is truly possible when you can visit the gym any time you want, not just before 8 a.m. or after 7 p.m. Monday through Friday.

So eat less and excericse more AND feel motivated to make a change. That's about it.

Well, there's a little more--like trying to eat more healthy foods. We've been more vigilant these past months to include fruits and vegetables in every meal we eat. And the typical repository for these vegetables has been our daily dinner salad.

If I'm eating salads, I want to encourage my readers to improve their diets, too. In fact, as an extra piece of encouragement to you, today I'm giving away my perfected dinner salad recipe.

Without a doubt I make the best dinner salad in the world, which has been confirmed by many who have dined in my house. My dinner salad is not difficult to make nor does it include exotic ingredients, so all the readers of this blog should be able to make this salad as well. It does, however, require some effort. No, you can't just open a bag, pour it into a bowl, drench the greens in dressing and eat. It takes care--which I believe accentuates its deliciousness.

I learned long ago that to be truly delicious, food must appeal both to the eye and to the taste buds. How your food looks and is presented is just as important as how it tastes. Therefore, my salad should be made in a salad bowl and eaten off of a plate, with metal utensils. It won't taste the same on paper or foam plates or eaten with plastic. I'm getting ahead of myself--we haven't even made the salad yet! So, here's my recipe for Kevin's delicious dinner salad:

First, pick fresh greens. You can use field greens, leaf lettuce or romaine lettuce as your main ingredient. Raw spinach, endive, and arugula can also be included to supplement, but should not be your main green. Do not use iceberg lettuce or cabbage in this salad. Sorry.

Once you've selected the greens, thoroughly wash them. I don't care if the bag says "ready to use", at my house every raw ingredient gets washed by me in my sink. Once washed, the greens go into a salad spinner and I spin away. You must get as much excess water off the greens as possible, otherwise your salad will get soggy, not to mention forget any possibility of leftovers. If your greens are too large, tear them into bite-sized pieces. Do not chop your greens. However, if you use romaine as your primary green, please cut out the thick stem that runs through the middle of each leaf. That should be done with a knife.

Once your greens are washed, spun and reduced to their desire size, dump them into your salad bowl. Make sure the bowl is a large one. Since my salads include lots of ingredients I like a large bowl so those ingredients don't fly on the table when I'm tossing them.

My favorite fresh salad ingredients besides greens are onions, red peppers, carrots, cucumbers and celery. Onions should be thinly sliced rings from a sweet red onion, or one or two chopped scallions (green onions). Red peppers should be roasted. This is a trick I learned from my wife. Cut the pepper in half, remove the seeds, then set the halves (skin side down) on top of the burners of my gas stove. Turn the burners on high flame and roast the peppers. As soon on the skin is black all over, take the halves off the burners and wash under cold water in the sink. The burnt skin will wash right off. Chop the roasted peppers into strips and throw into the salad bowl. Roasted red peppers are far tastier than raw ones.

Carrots should be grated, not sliced--and don't use more than one full-sized carrot in the salad. As far as the cucumbers, peal them, then run a dinner fork lengthwise across the outside. Your slices will be "scored" on the outside, kind of like a coin. I don't know why, but scored cucumber slices taste better to me. Finally, celery should be thinly chopped.

As far as non-fresh ingredients, keep them at a minimum. As much as I like croutons and pita chips in my salads (think fatoush), they invariably get soggy, so I typically don't use. Not big on nuts, seeds, or dried fruits in my salad either. Oh yes, and please no sprouts. But cheese, go for it! You can never have too much cheese in your diet.

I prefer cubes of goat cheese (feta is fine) or the baby mozzarella balls that are packed in olive oil--those will work in my salads. But I won't use grated cheddar, reminds me too much of tacos.

I also like marintated veggies in my salads for extra flavor. These could include sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, chopped hearts of palm, and even chopped olives (black or green). Finally, a chopped hard boiled egg is also welcome.

Once you have thrown all the ingredients into the salad bowl, time for the dressing. I have a homemade dressing that I make almost every day. We call it "Lemony Snicket", like the silly children's books. The ingredients are simple--one part fresh lemon juice (can substitute lime juice or bottled lemon juice), two parts extra virgin olive oil, kosher salt, ground black pepper and garlic powder to taste. I usually substitute Adobo (which is a Latin American spice found in most supermarkets) for the pepper, garlic powder and some of the salt. Mix those ingredients well. Fiddle with the amount of the ingredients you use in your dressing until you like the taste and the amount is sufficient for the size of your salad. Dress the salad immediately before eating. Otherwise the dish might get soggy, which for me is the undoing of an otherwise delicious salad.

I never tire of eating this dinner salad. And, while I can't say the salad has promoted my weight loss, I can say it is consistently voted one of the favorite dishes at dinner time in the Piecuch home, which, if you've eaten a meal with us, is saying a lot.

Bon Appetit!

Blessed Assurance

Funerals are rituals meant for the living. Other than burying a dead person's body in hallowed ground and praying that God helps the soul find paradise, there's not much the living can do for their dearly departed once they are gone. However, for those who remain, there's lots of work to be done for each other, hence the wake, the funeral and family gatherings.

Last week I attended the funeral of my father-in-law, Francisco Gobourne. Since he was a lifelong Catholic, his funeral included all the "typical" Catholic features: time with family, the "wake" held at a local funeral home, and the funeral mass in the church.

During the wake, which was held on Friday evening, the body of Francisco lay in an open casket. Friends and family were invited to view the body, pay respects to the dead, and extend words of sympathy to family members. During the wake, the family lead an informal service of prayer and rememberance.

The next day saw a funeral mass held at the church. The casket was present in the church during the service, but it was closed, covered by the funeral cloth (a.k.a. the pall). During the service, scripture was read, prayers prayed, music played and sung. One song, "His Eye is on the Sparrow" was sung by my son Isaac and his cousin Sean.

Following the funeral, the family caravaned out to Long Island to the cemetary, where, under the watchful and prayful eyes of a gnarled old Irish deacon, Francisco's body was laid to rest. Friends and family then returned to Francisco's house where we broke bread together and toasted the memory of our departed loved one.

Francisco was buried with appropriate dignity and his family honored him with respect and even joy. This was not a sad affair, but a celebration of a life.

One theme that surfaced during last weekend that keeps running through my mind is the idea of assurance. My brother-in-law Omar specifically talked about assurance at the Friday wake--and I have returned to that theme over and over ever since. Omar asked everyone present at the wake to ask themselves whether they felt assured their lives were on the right path. And, if after reflection you found yourself on the wrong path, he challenged us to change directions and follow the light of Christ.

I don't know about you, but I need a lot of assurance in my life. I constantly question whether my choices are the right ones. For me, assurance comes when other people tell me I'm on the right path and that I should soldier forward. You probably know that I need assurance in many aspects of my life, not just with the big decisions. I look to my wife to tell me constantly that she loves me, and my daughter to tell me I look alright, and my friends to tell me I'm still relevant. Further, I want to feel assured that the people I love have also chosen rightly--that ultimately their choices will lead them to happiness and satisfaction. Without assurance, I become paralyzed by doubt, worry, and indecision. Should I stop? Turn around? Change directions? Should I warn others of the perils they face? Or do I proceed forward, sometimes cautiously, sometimes boldly, but forward.

There's an old gospel song I love, "Blessed Assurance," which says that by choosing the way of Jesus Christ, we put ourselves on a road that leads to eternal joy in the presence of the creator. I heard echoes of that song many times last week as family member after family member affirmed that my father-in-law had chosen the path of Christ. They said that though he was an imperfect follower, Francisco owned strong faith. These same persons affirmed that God would reward his faith with a place in heaven. Family members said it. The priest said it at the funeral mass. The deacon said it at the grave site. Blessed assurance. Francisco had chosen the path of faith--and now he lives in God's presence. Speaking these words of assurance did not speed Francisco to the pearly gates, they were meant to comfort the living.

In the end, my sense of assurance regarding Francisco has little to do with the words spoken about him last week. As we all know, actions speak louder than words--and it is actions, not words that give me comfort today.

Deeds of a life truly reflect what's in one's heart, and I believe Francisco's actions are the best measure of his person. Certain deeds he performed stand out as a clear indication he was walking on the right path when he died. First, the man loved his family and never tired of seeking and promoting reconciliation among siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. He wanted everyone in his family together and in love. Second, he prayed daily that God would direct his steps and he freely shared God's guiding hand through almost daily emails he sent to his family and friends. Third, he helped the needy. For thirteen years Francisco fed and sheltered a homeless man at his house. The family knew the man as "Jocko". Nobody knows for sure where Jocko came from or why he was homeless, all we know is that Francisco found him alone and destitute and he helped him without asking for anything in return.

Jesus said that a tree is known by its fruit. A good tree will produce good fruit, while a barren tree is useless. We can have assurance that the path we are following is the right one by looking at our fruit. Is there real, juicy, delicious fruit in our lives? Are we experiencing love, peace, and joy? Are we improving the lives of others? And, can others see our fruit and do they want similar fruit for themselves?

If I want for myself the blessed assurance that Francisco had in his last days, I need to show some fruit. Not words, not leaves, not roots nor branches, I must bear fruit.

Hope you find some fruit in me. And if you find a piece of fruit from my tree, let me know what it tastes like.

KJP

P.S. The photo at the front of this piece was taken at Francico's house in Queens, New York. The people in the photo are friends and family of Francisco Gobourne. I'm in the picture. So is Clarisa and all four of our children. Can you find them? The garage in the background is where Jocko sleeps (it is heated!).